Blood Price
by eisceire
Summary: Swiftnick needs DeeDee to drive him into action but what happens to her when he isn't there to hold her back? A glimpse at what occurs when she goes off on her own. A cunning young vixen faces up to a crafty old badger. Rated T on basis of injury details. O/C
1. Outlaw's Choice

**TRIG SH / SI — Chapter 3 & onwards have injury & healing scenes based on my knowledge of SH / SI**

_**The story DeeDee's Secret in FF Net by Emrys-Is-Merlin is what started off this story. It had me**__** wondering if DeeDee would really let go of things so very easily ... whatever it was Swifnick might have to say about things.**_

The Road Ravens Swiftnick, Moses and DeeDee were crouched in the underbrush just below the slope of the old road. While they waited for their victim, Swiftnick mused to himself: it really had to be some confident kind of coach-driver to come along here ... and crafty ... but not nearly crafty enough to slip by him of course (it was a mere detail that it had been DeeDee who had detected the coach first). In a very few moments the momentum of the coach would crunch to a crawl as it clambered upslope and that was when they would strike. By the sound of it; the coach was already struggling along under some weight ... which promised them some wealth. He peered out; poised to give the signal that would set them springing into action ... then he was waving wildly at his cohorts to creep back into the bush, to get further back, to be safe.

No sooner were they back in the snicket, where they'd secreted all their steeds, than DeeDee descended on him, demanding to know: « What happened there then? »

Swiftnick was swift to explain: « Didn't you see it, that was one of the old guards; I don't fancy tackling one of them, a fellow could get hurt that way ... I mean I don't want you fellows to get hurt. »

DeeDee raised her eyebrows; rolled her eyes; tossed her head; gave a disgusted grunt and then swung up into her saddle, without another word — pointedly riding off in the eopposite direction to the other two. Swiftnick let her go; she'd see that he was right when she settled. Being a famous outlaw chief he had to make these kinds of decisions for the good of his skin ... for the good of his gang. It was the burden of command.


	2. Soldier's Duty

**TRIG SH / SI — Chapter 3 & onwards have injury & healing scenes based on my knowledge of SH / SI**

The burden of his journey weighs heavily on Stendahl; he is one of the old band who had used to serve Lord Devereux. They'd stayed on in service to the castle when it'd changed hands but had had very little to do since then. All of the action went to the new henchmen, who had half the skill of the senior guards, and yet got every plum post. He could see how someone like Snakelaw couldn't be comfortable with any kind of competent crew who had a conscience; it still rankled to be relegated to the sidelines ... except when something of exceptional importance had to be undertaken. Sir John wasn't quite so stupid as not to know which were the best weapons in his armoury; which was what made it clear that Snakelaw would do anything to ensure that at least one of his coaches came through clear and safe.

That was why the coach had come this way; the driver deciding to take the more difficult route, the longer and less obvious one; in hopes of outflanking the outlaws. Stendahl had been suspicious of the scuffling in the shrubs that he'd seen as he'd been about to head up the hill and had kept his morning-star to hand, to make a few heads roll if need be; but nothing had come of it. Eyeing the overgrowth ahead, now, he isn't happy at how close it comes to the road but at least the branches overhead haven't grown back; so there is a safe headway and too long a drop for any outlaw hoping to ambush him from above. Keeping a close eye to either side he eases forward — then the greenery geysers into his face, rushes at him as he rises from his seat. He's been smashed into from behind: sending his body soaring; till it smashes into the soil, sorely.

.

By the time the blackness has cleared: he's up against the coach-side; with a swordpoint at his jugular and an ache in his back, from the boots that have brought him low. Rolling his eyes up he enquires: « You be Swiftnick? Nobody else would be lunatic enough to jump from up there! » That earns him a bloodletting in his neck and the retort « As if! He's too busy to be here. Do I look like him! » From down on the ground it's hard to discern much detail; he can only gather a general impression as his gaze runs up the footpad's body ... and over two outstanding items that indicate, all too plainly, that this is not a man-at-arms.

This is too much: he objects; protests; dissents and demands a duel — instead of this indignity. To Stendahl's utter amazement he's actually amused the outlaw into agreeing and she steps back; so that he can stand and settle himself for the stand-off. By now Stendahl's scattered wits have returned enough for him to see how stupid he's been: as a captive he might have lived; as the challenger to a desperado he's likely to die. He's lived on his wits long enough to know he has to even the odds. Even as he stands, he strives to make himself seem as ancient as can be and says: « Go ahead, run me through now. Happen I've got no chance against you, not at my age. Let be that I have a buckler or call it murder. » Her response scares him more than anything so far, she has to be entirely insane, and yet it gives him hope: she lets him lash one of her hands behind her back.


	3. Robber's Blood

_**TRIG SH / SI — Chapter 3 & onwards have injury & healing scenes based on my knowledge of SH / SI.**_

_**This fight scene was originally one long chapter; it's been broken in two & some chapter heads altered.**_

_**That's the essence of what has changed.**_

Stendahl stares about with a stern face; as the girl thrusts their two swords, point-first, into the ground and a distance apart — ready for when they begin. When she's cast her cloak and hat aside and turned her slender, vulnerable, back to him — Stendahl can't hold himself in any further and his fierce facade fades into a grin. It's good that he's gulled her and got under her guard to hobble her. He isn't young anymore and has never looked impressive but he's always been more of swordsman than he's seemed; which she'll soon learn to her loss, he thinks. Besides that, if you aren't one of the wonders of the world, in a world of bladesharks and braggadocios, you learn to take your advantages where you find them. He twists her arm up high behind her back and ties it so tight that the cords bite into her skin. She makes no complaint, even if the excruciation of it isn't going to make her life any easier; whatever about her balance.

Harder still for her is being knocked to the ground by his brutal blow to her back. She goes reeling, sprawling; even then, though, she is already reaching for her sword — not caught as much off guard as he had hoped. Stendahl switches tack: slams his coaching boot hard against her crotch; sees her curl up in agony, even as he catches up his sword. Swinging about he's surprised to see her just-about on her feet; white-faced but willing to fight. Snaking his sword round; he seizes on his one, slight, chance to strike her down before she's entirely up ... only to have her sword sizzle out and stymie him. The blow that should have hit home in her heart goes glissading up and across her right shoulder instead. He's cut her and cut her deep but it isn't the end of her, as he'd hoped it would be, and now he has to leap back before she strikes back. The pause in the beat of the battle has let her get to her feet, which is as far as she seems to want to go. She stops there, at that point; stands to attention and salutes him with her sword ... as if there had been no crippling foul and now is the start of the fight. Stendahl can but return the gesture and make as if this is an ordinary fight.

Stendahl gives a grim stare as they start to spark blades, if only because he doesn't dare let her see how hopeful he is He's had the first blood and, even if it has come short of her sword-arm, the gash and the gore at her shoulder will tip the balance ever more his way; as the battle wears on and she wears out. Besides that, his boot between her legs is still having its effect; he can tell, by her breathing, by the heft of her breasts ... the ones that catch his eye more than they should do. It's time to strike out, before he strikes out. He fights left-handed; which muddles most opponents at first but rarely forever, and this girl is quicker to react than most ... best to make the best of his advantage while he has it.

Lifting his foil a little above the usual line of attack he smites down at her sword-arm, like a striking hawk. It's an unusual and an unexpected manoeuvre that has caught many people off guard ... but not her. She twists around to be outside of his blade and bears in at his shoulder. However, he's anticipated her having above-the-average alertness and isn't there to be hit. Stendahl is already settled into the second half of what has always been a double-edged offensive. The hawk-strike has got his body dipping to begin with and he brings his body down further yet: curving it around and under her only arm; then dropping his sword down into his left-hand. It is early in the game to give up the advantage he has; by being a sinister and a dexter fighter. Whatever about that, he surely isn't going to skip a chance to exploit the opening she's given him; by being brazen enough to cross blades with him, while being half-handed. With his blade in his outer hand: he slashes into the edge of her inner thigh and spirals on round; to slice across the front and the side of her leg too ... only coming out of the curve as he begins to cut into the back of her leg.

The arc of his movement has carried him down, around and under her shoulder so, as he rises, their positions have become reversed. He could never have done it if she'd had a second hand free to fend him off but she hasn't and now he is up against her entirely undefended back ... or would be if she was a lesser fighter. She simply carries through her failed thrust against himself and uses the impetus to carry her away from the danger zone. She suffers a slash aslant her strapped-up arm, the one supposedly set-off from the fight, but scapes further harm.


	4. Robber's Bones

They are back facing each other, just as it was a minute ago; except that each is where the other was standing a moment before. Except too, for the ravine of blood that runs round two-thirds of the highwaymaid's left thigh. To her credit the outlaw doesn't act is if it affects her at all but Stendahl knows that no degree of stoicism can counteract the bloodloss or even, entirely, the pain and the impairment.

« Well hit! That's paid me for playing cock o the walk. » the girl quips, wry-faced, as she raises her sword to salute him again. Then they resume the fray and Stendahl isn't afraid anymore; he's faring well: her agility, alacrity, dexterity and energy are draining away, momentarily. In this moment too, he's well placed to put into play his secret weapon. He gives a strange, stuttering cry; causing the horse's hoof to hammer into the highwaymaid ... sending her stunned form flying, as if the entire coach has crashed into her. The girl it is that comes crashing down, in a crumpled heap by the side of the coach. Somehow, she still keeps her sword squeezed tight in her fist, for all the good it will do her. Axed to the ground her rib-cracked carcass convulses and she's entirely helpless, at that instant — an instant he is swift to seize.

Age encumbered, he can no longer stoop to stab a fallen foe. However, her head has hit home midway between the wooden wheel and his brass-bound boots. She still has her wits about her and knows well what is coming. He doesn't disappoint: booting brutally into the side of her head and bouncing it off of the wheel; setting her skull to rebound right back at his boot; letting him lash her head into the wheel, yet again; for another ricochet back to his brassed-boot — and on and around, again and again. Steadily kicking her senseless, he knows it can't be long before bone and flesh break against brass and timber.

Suddenly he stops; toes stubbing against spokes — the girl is not there. She's gotten her own foot up against the rim of the wheel and boosted herself backwards, shooting along on her spine, and is well out of his orbit; before he's more than barely aware that she's become absent. A distance apart, she's able to find her feet and face him again. Bobbing and weaving she awaits him; but this is no bareknuckle match and this is no tactic of hers ... only a dazed and desperate dance to keep her dizzy body upright. Stendahl has no doubt what his tactic must be and launches a swordstorm of slashes against her, shredding her tunic to scarlet and black. He hasn't the wind that he once had; so he wants to wound the groggy girl as much as he can, while he can. By launching this assault he's sure to be short of breath by the time she comes to her senses but he hopes that, by then, it'll be far too late for the highwaymaid.


	5. DeeDee's Harm

**TRIG SH / SI — Chapter 3 & onwards have injury & healing scenes based on my knowledge of SH / SI.**

In the end he has to come to a halt, as it's too hard to catch an easy breath. So it happens; that he becomes an easy catch himself, after the hard work of his hackworks. Still and all nothing happens in the hiatus ... save that a sanguinary spiderwork spreads across the sable surcoat of his assailant. Woozy as she is, she weaves a wild web of red onto the ground, with the blood dripping from her veins ... as she struggles in vain to stay steady on her feet. Her sword hangs down from an arm that, he can see, she finds too heavy to hold up anymore. There'll be no more hold-ups from her; not if he has his way. She's as easy to kill as an ox in a stall, as she stands ... barely stands.

For all that temptation of taking out the target, there is a doubt. Dangerous as she is, would it yet be better to despatch her or to deliver her to Sir John and reap a reward for leashing a live outlaw? Best to do both, he thinks; he's hardly ever held a life so completely in his hands as he does her's: he can strike where it suits him, do whatever damage he desires. He might hamstring her but what to do with her hands; a strike in the neck or the heart would be too hasty an end; disembowelling would truly be a shambles and paralysis of the spine took more skill than he had. He took a rasping breath, as his mind spun around, and saw the ideal, the poetic answer: a thrust through the lungs would cripple her and kill her too ... but creakingly and only after she'd been seen by Sir John. Energised; he engaged his stance and stood squarely before the staggering girl, determined to do her the kindness of a clean stroke.

It's a cruel joke; that very next stroke. It strikes into his kidney, digs deep in his vitals — the girl curling around his back and upwards: to slash him under the arm, over the back and across his jaw. He'd played the dotard on her and now she's done the same to him; not being as badly injured as she'd made out. She's made the most of his hawk-strike too; playing it out, in reverse, upon him. Enraged; he stabs his sword outwards and downwards, as she darts around him ... a cramped and crazy gesture that'll do due service for a dagger but scarcely suits the long-stroke of a sword. Sure enough, it escapes from his grip; by the time she's brought her ballet of blood to a close and come around to face him again he is weaponless, helpless and hopeless.

It would be his finish but for the fluke and fortune of war ... for the forepart of his sword stands half-buried to the hilt under the girl's ribs. « Oh » is all she says, as she takes in what has happened. His desperate daggering has done better than ever it deserved to. Warrior that he is, he knows that this is the wound that wins the battle. Whatever about any ploys and pretences this has got past all her defences; in a defeat that would bring any wight down. He sees the battle-light burn bright in her eye and sorrows for her; that she can't see that all she can do is surrender.


	6. DeeDee's Storm

**TRIG SH / SI — Chapter 3 & onwards have injury & healing scenes based on my knowledge of SH / SI.**

Not a warrior in the world, with such a steel edge so solidly sunk in flesh, would expect to escape ... except and unless for being mad as a midday bat — and she is. Shortly after her yelling stops and well before he's recovered his reeling senses; he finds himself pressed back against the panelwork of the coach, with her swordpoint pressing hard against his heart. The unreality of the instant before unreels before his mind's eye: the girl swinging her body savagely to the side and smashing the sword inside her into the side of the coach; so that it snaps in two. And to, it's too much for his mind to grasp: the agony on her face; the about-face of their fortunes, as she seizes the initiative again ... as well as the hilt-end of his sword. Snapped free, it's free to be flung at his head; hard enough to hammer out his wits.

It's why he wasn't able to evade his capture; even if his captor is on her last legs: the cruel sword clipping his chest has a cat-whisker wisp of a shake in it ... which wends it's way along her weapon-arm and winnows into her trunk; winding through her hard-breathing body and weakening it. Her limbs are berouged and scarlet threads trace a tapestry through her tunic-top. Through that top, enough can be seen to be sure that he's been bested by no man.

Disgusted and disappointed, Stendahl abandons all diplomacy; not that it matters anyhow. The maid looks about as merciful as any mercenary. However, he will have his say:

« What be you waiting for? Shove it in! Show everyone how special you are; you and your monkey tricks. One-handed! Happen you think that be so fancy fine? Tis a jester's game! Happen be you don't deserve to win! You … »

« No. »

« What! »

« No! Really I don't. Frills in a fight make as much sense as feathers on a fish. »

« Lord Devereux! Them's his words! Where be you heard them? »

« Trained under him. »

« What! You can't have! You be a … You be … different. »

« Yes! Me and all the beardless boys in the armies. »

« Happen be you're not a soldier no more! Be you even a Devereux man? He'd be that sorry-sad, to find one of his own turned gallowsbait. How be you clove the tollblade road? »

« I didn't ... I haven't ... I don't ... I'm not but I am — _Deep Breath & Pause_ — I'm no tollblade ... call me a soldier. This is my campaign against Sir John; he's the one I rob. »

« Ah! ... ... ... ... ... ... ... Where do I enlist? »

« That would be right here! You'll need a sword; so take mine. Now it's an army of two. Myself, DeeDee, and you. So! Who are you? »

« Stendahl, Cap'n; happen be you was foolish to give over your weapon! »

She shrugs; grimaces; gestures at the sword stuck in her.

« Could it make things much worse? If you were tricking me. »

« Happen not, Cap'n. Best be we get you fixed. »


	7. Coacher's Mercy

**TRIG SH / SI — Chapter 3 & onwards have injury & healing scenes based on my knowledge of SH / SI.**

Stendahl shoots up to his coach seat, for but a moment, and then is back with a traveller's tailoring kit, his thick coaching gloves, a horse-pick and something to drink. During that time DeeDee has doffed most of her upper kit and is casually leant against the coach-wheel; betimes he comes back. Dropping down besides DeeDee, Stendahl hands her the horse-pick, the handle of which she puts into her mouth. Stendahl sets his hands inside his gloves; DeeDee sets her hands to the wheel; he grips the sword-stub; she grips the coach-rim; he pulls hard; she groans soft — the sword-stub stays, stubbornly, scarily, stuck. White-faced and wet with sweat she shakes her head; speaks shakily:

« Actually, you're pulling me around; not the sword. Next time; try holding me down! »

Stendahl gives a grim nod; his face set in concentration and concern. They settle into the same stances as before but, this time, he brings his boot up to brace himself. The sole of his shoe sits square on her bare beltline. He takes hold of the half-sword and hauls back, hurtingly. His boot bears into her body, bearing her back until her back bites into the coach-bearer; the rim timber raises a rainbow of blood and bruises athwart her spine. The sole of his shoe sinks deep into DeeDee's stomach, as the strength of her body sinks under the agonising onslaught that is squeezing all of the air from out of her. With senses swimming from suffering, strain and air-starved lungs, DeeDee grips the gyre so hard it's a wonder that wood and bone don't break beneath the pressure. For a bit, Stendahl imagines that she's bit the horse-bit in two; as her teeth champ down, to choke down the screams that would otherwise escape her. In the end of it all it's impossible for her body to give way even an iota more — so the sword must move and move it does, laggingly and lurchingly, like a stallion struggling from a swamp. Last of all, when there's but a little length left within, DeeDee unclamps her hands from the coach-wheel and clasps hands with Stendahl ... so that, in symphony, they can slide the sword along and finally out, in a gout of bright blood.

Stendahl is swift to stem the tide and is there at her side, for then and for always. He forces his flagon against her lips and liquid lava flows through DeeDee; the spirits stealing away some of her pain. It's only a few drams, as the drama is still to come ... as he dumps the drink down over her deeply damaged body. It sinks deep and dips DeeDee in a forest-fire inferno; scorching and searing every scarlet seam stitched across her body ... setting them free from infection. Stendahl has set DeeDee free of her scarecrow clothes, so as to achieve the immolation, and now he tucks them together with his tailoring kit and the horse-bit, as he comes to sit by her. Doffing his great gloves, that have done their duty; Stendahl settles to more dextrous deeds, as he threads a needle with finest gut and gets to sewing the essentials back together again ... the flesh of the girl. White and silent, DeeDee digs her teeth deep in the horse-pick handle, as she holds herself as still as any statue; withholding every wince and whine. She will not shake ... not even as the tailor's torment traces tears down her face; she'll face this and aid her newfound ally in any way she can.

At this hour, her aid is for herself; it is true. The tide is sure to turn, though, at some time in the future. Stendahl has called her the Captain of their compact army and that's a compact she'll keep to. To be true to their aim too it falls out that they must needs be false as well. Stendahl can spin a story to set a smile on Sir John's face and be the noble's darling; despite the loss of the coach. To speak of ambush and affray; of deceit and duels; of highwaymen and handicaps; of sword-stabbing and sword-snapping is all but the truth. It will be an exciting enough truth that Sir John will count the cost of a coach and it's contents as small beer, besides the idea of an outlaw on his bier. Snakelaw might even see fit to fit-out Stendahl with a new sword; the driver daren't keep DeeDee's, for fear of questions raised. Indeed, the entire aftermath of the affair must have a muggy veil lowered over it: Stendahl is safest to claim confusion and a clout on the head, followed by darkness, as the denouement. He'll have the hillock on his head to prove it too; for both of their safety's sake DeeDee will deliver a blow to lie Stendahl down and deliver him from that lie.


	8. Swiftnick's Shock

**TRIG SH / SI — Chapter 3 & onwards have injury & healing scenes based on my knowledge of SH / SI.**

Swiftnick stands in no such need of delivery from deceit; in a life littered with lice rather than lies. He seems to be lying in a positive pit of the critters. He and Moses have made their own bed, a moss bed, here on the main road. DeeDee might be off in a dudgeon, or even a dungeon for all he cares right now, but a bold brigand chief has to go his own road and stake his own road — the safe road that has no real risk riding on it. That's why, after giving up on the good gold coach with the bad old coacher, he and Moses had made their way to the main highway and made an ambush for all that might come their way. Though he wished they'd made sure there were no mites in the bush to come their way. He can hear the ominous approach of a coach and doesn't dare desert his verminous crouch.

It's another out of Sir John's stable: a coach and pair ... of the right weight and gait to be bearing golden gems, instead of olden gents. This time the driver is a dwarf: small, shabby, scrunched and slumped, sleepily. Swiftnick straightens in his saddle and spurts out of the shrubbery to startle and stop the coach with great effect; it's in no way a great escape from grating insects. Moses must be mithering as there isn't a sign of him; till after a withering wave from a snarky Swiftnick summons him out, to be chewed out by the older boy.

« What is wrong with everybody today! Didn't you see me out there, or something? Dreaming that DeeDee was with you, were you? »

« That's not fair! You never said anything about galloping! You should've warned me, Nick. You know it makes me seasick. »

« Well! You never told me you'd been to sea; did you! How am I supposed to know all your problems? »

« Okay, okay ... Pond Sick then. You never gave me a chance though! »

« Of course I didn't. I was testing your mettle. That's what all great leaders do. We're always thinking about our men. We never think about our own comfort! »

« Metal! What metal? We haven't got anything yet, Nick. Is it in the coach? Is it gold or silver? »

« No! No! Not coiners' metal. The Other Kind. You know: m-e-t-y-l ... m-e-t-t-a-i-l ... m-e-t-u-l-l — oh, never mind; you wouldn't understand. Can't you be quiet! You're distracting me. The coach is going to get away! »

« But! The driver's asleep, Nick »

« Oh. Yes. I wondered how long you'd take to notice that. I'll just go and check the coach then. Moses; you keep an eye on him, in case he wakes up. »

... ... ... ... ... ...

.. ... ... ... ... ...

.. ... ... ... ... ...

« Ugggh! »

« Moses! Why can't you be quiet, when I give you a job to do? What're you doing, lying down like that? This isn't any time to take a nap! OH! Okay, okay; I know you're there Mr Coach Driver. Don't be mad; please don't be mad. We weren't really going to rob you. I was just ... just ... you know ... umm ... teaching my assistant here. Yes! A great leader, like me, has to keep his troops trained all the time. You can understand that can't you? No hard feelings okay. We'll just go our way and let you get on your way, okay? ... ... ... ... My Hat! ... That was My Hat! »

Stunty's swordpoint has caught Swiftnick's hat under the brim and flicked it, flying, from the highwayman's head. The driver's light laughter leaps out; it has a familiar feel to it and the form of the fighter is shifting, straightening, stretching ... into DeeDee. Moses is awake now and wishes he wasn't; while Swiftnick has entirely forgotten his hat, at sight of this sudden scene change. He speaks first:

« Just who's side are you on anyway? What're you doing driving that coach? When did you start working for Sir John »

« Actually, never. I'm the same side as always ... but you should see your faces! »

« It isn't funny! Don't laugh Moses! She scared me half to death ... I mean you should show your leader respect. And, where did you get this coach anyway? It looks just like the one on the old road; please tell me it isn't. It is! Isn't it? Where's the driver? Has he gone for reinforcements? Is he following you? How did you get this coach?

« Won a duel, of course. »

« Well, yes, you would wouldn't you; you against some creaky old wreck of a coach driver. How long did that take? A minute? Two minutes? Tell me you didn't hurt him! That'd really make Sir John mad, I don't want to be hunted down ... I mean I don't want You Lot hunted down. »

« Oh, yes. I can see you're worried, Nick. Don't be! There isn't a problem; we had a duel, I had one hand tied behind my back and it didn't help him. »

« One hand! You're the best DeeDee! »

« Shut Up, Moses! What have I done to deserve this? You're mad, you know that, DeeDee. What if you'd been hurt? What'd we do then? »

« Actually ... . »

DeeDee sweeps her cape aside: jaws slacken and faces ashen ... silence is her tribute.


End file.
